Seven Times Over
by robot iconography
Summary: Seven different ways a "stable-ish" relationship might play out. Post-IM2.
1. Honesty

**1. Honesty**

Before he flies them down off the rooftop of an apartment building in Queens, Tony says, "Trust me. I can do this." And Pepper does. She trusts him to the point where she doesn't so much as bat an eye when he hires the new assistant.

Her name is Memphis, and she's twenty-three years old, a petite, sultry brunette with a tattoo of a swallow on her hipbone. But the details don't matter, not really. The point is, she's not Pepper.

It's not that he stops loving Pepper, or even that he stops being attracted to her. She is, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to him. It's just that she makes him work so damn _hard_ sometimes. Not in bed—he's not averse to that, not at all—but in terms of keeping the relationship together. She holds him accountable for so much. What was okay when she was his PA doesn't fly now that she's his girlfriend. Tony doesn't do well with boundaries. He chafes.

Ironically, Pepper's the one who insisted that they go to this stupid benefit, for some cause he doesn't give a shit about. She even let him buy her a dress—she hates when he buys her clothes because she feels as though she's being shown off, which she is.

Then, at the eleventh hour, she came down with a head cold and left him holding the bag. He can't beg off because he's agreed to put in an appearance when his donation is announced.

So he's at the party, stag, for the first time in who knows how long, and he does what he usually does in these types of situations, or what he used to do, anyway. He gets a little bored, and then he gets a little drunk, and then he gets a little… amorous. He plans on going directly home and waking up Pepper, who would more than likely be receptive to his attentions now that she's had a few hours of sleep. He doesn't even mind if he catches her cold—he doesn't have to worry about that kind of thing anymore.

He goes looking for Memphis, to ask her what time he's supposed to make whatever asshole speech or giant-cheque-handling they've got him doing at this thing. He finds her outside, around the back. She's got a gin and tonic in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the other.

"Want one, boss?" she asks, with a conspiratorial grin.

Tony hasn't smoked in years—he barely paid lip service to it back when it was cool the first time. Now, though, he wants to. Mostly because he knows Pepper wouldn't like it. He wonders, idly, whether he's having a mid-life crisis. It would be a little premature, but after all, he is a prodigy.

He nods, and she slips a fresh cigarette between his lips. He puts his hand on hers to steady the lighter. The smoke crackles and flares as he takes it into his lungs. Memphis teaches him how to blow smoke rings, which is about the sexiest fucking thing he's ever seen—she clearly knows how to use her tongue.

They wind up necking like teenagers in the back of her car. It's sloppy, and unsatisfying at first—she's relatively inexperienced, and he's used to being with someone who already knows all his shortcuts. She also has an assortment of body piercings; his teeth keep clicking against metal in unexpected places.

He has to give her a bit of direction, but once he's fired up, it doesn't take him long to remember where everything goes; it is, as they say, just like riding a bicycle.

Afterwards, he feels slightly ridiculous. The worst part is, it's _such_ a cliché. It's predictable—the one thing he's always sworn he would never be.

Pepper is sound asleep when he wanders in, reeking of cigarettes and sex. He showers and sends the evidence down the laundry chute before crawling into bed next to her.

She doesn't suspect a thing, and so he doesn't need to confess. But in the morning he tells her anyway. He may be an asshole, but at least he's an honest one.


	2. Patience

_Author's note: just to be clear, each chapter is a self-contained alternate universe. Which means, if you don't like this ending, another one will be along shortly. ;) _

**2. Patience**

Unlike Tony, Pepper isn't hard-wired for infidelity; monogamy suits her just fine, actually. But life with Tony isn't monogamous, even when he's being completely faithful—she's caught in a _ménage à trois_ with him and Iron Man. And Iron Man, it seems, doesn't like to share.

She spends a lot of time waiting around for Tony to get back from missions. She's not the type to play Penelope; however, her Odysseus assures her it won't take him ten years to get home, even if he isn't always able to provide an exact ETA. She and Happy get a lot of mileage out of jokes about Stark Standard Time. It's not ideal, but it is what it is, and Pepper adapts, just like she always has.

While she waits, Pepper keeps herself occupied. She gets very, very good at the New York Times crossword. Occasionally, she prepares a welcome-back meal in Tony's enormous kitchen—something that can be served cold or left to simmer if his return is delayed. She learns how to knit, and calculates how much time and yarn she would need to make him a sweater for Christmas.

Tony approves of these activities, and teases her about becoming domesticated. She isn't; she just needs something to do with her hands.

Even when he comes back physically, it can take a while before he's able to be emotionally present. As much as she appreciates his attentions, it isn't just his body she wants to spend time with.

She's alone at the house one night, all night. Tony is half-way around the world, blasting his way into some fortified bunker, the phone line heavy with static. He makes wisecracks, assures her it's no big deal. Tells her to describe what she's wearing. She's too wound up to banter, so she tells him the truth: she's wearing his MIT sweatshirt, the old one, with the holes in the sleeve that look like they were made by buckshot. She tells him to be careful. He says something, something that starts in 'I' and ends in '—ou,' but when she asks him to repeat it, he says it isn't a good connection and tells her to order pizza—he'll eat it whenever he gets back.

He breaks contact just after 2 a.m., and JARVIS can only guess at his location and status. Pepper's on edge, and she's frightened, and she's reached the point where she just wants to shut it all off. And so she takes a page from Tony's book—in fact, she takes three sheets, and she throws them to the wind.

Pepper can't remember the last time she tried scotch, but it still tastes like antiseptic. That goes away once she's had a few. She crunches the ice, the sound deafeningly loud in the empty house. The scent of sweat and liquor on her skin reminds her of crawling into bed beside Tony, and makes her feel a little bit sad and a little bit sexy all at once.

To buoy her spirits, she watches an old movie, a comedy. She calls Happy, her fellow traveller on this lonely night road, and invites him to come in from his post at the security gate. There's plenty of pizza, she tells him.

Happy has been in love with Pepper for years. Tony doesn't know, and even if he did, it wouldn't bother him; there's a whole legion of guys among the ranks of SI employees who are in love with Pepper to some degree. Probably a few women, too.

Pepper's always known. Ironically, when they first met, she tried to let him down gently by claiming she had a hard and fast rule about never dating co-workers. It was true, at the time. She isn't thinking about that right now, though—she just wants to see a friendly face.

Happy would never deliberately make a move on the boss's girl. He thinks of himself as a pretty honourable guy, besides which, he respects Pepper. A lot. Anyway, she's drunk, and that's not really his style.

Halfway through the movie, Pepper starts to sob—quietly at first, then louder as the film's romantic subplot starts to wind down. Happy gives her an awkward half-hug, keeping their bodies as far apart as possible. She scoots closer, snuggles up to him. "Thanks, Hap," she murmurs.

When she kisses him, she tastes like tears and expensive scotch. Happy just wants to comfort her, at first—just wants her to quit crying. Which she does, eventually. Then he's afraid to stop, because he knows what he's going to say when he does. He knows she doesn't want to hear it.

When Pepper pushes him down onto the couch and fumbles at his belt, he reasons that she's not _that_ drunk. Probably.

Pepper goes to bed alone, just before dawn, and wakes up in the late afternoon with Tony's arm curled around her. The stippling of scabs on his hand and wrist matches the pock-marked sleeve of the sweatshirt she's still wearing.

Happy quits.

Pepper doesn't tell Tony about her lapse, because she doesn't want to hurt him, and because she hates to fail at anything. He figures it out a couple of months later, when she tells him she's pregnant.

Tony doesn't mind the cheating, so much; after all, these things happen. It's the disloyalty he can't forgive. He also resents the fact that it was _Happy_: he was a good driver, a good bodyguard, and he knew Tony's habits. The new guy talks too much.

Pepper doesn't question how Tony knows—she feels like she's been walking around wearing a scarlet letter. It was only a matter of time before he noticed.

He didn't notice: Pepper always said she didn't want kids, and so he's never told her, but one of the long-term side effects of palladium poisoning is sterility.


	3. Loyalty

**3. Loyalty**

Pepper hates press conferences. She gets anxious in situations where there are too many variables, too many balls in play. She second-guesses herself, worries that she isn't able to react quickly enough.

Tony vaguely remembers her telling him this; he wasn't certain how to respond to such a candid admission from his terrifyingly competent PA. He decided that a riff on the word 'balls' would be the most appropriate direction to take the conversation—at which point Pepper sighed, and changed the subject.

This was long before that fateful night when he'd finally kissed her on a rooftop, and essentially broken a bottle across the bow of their 'stable-ish' relationship. From Tony's perspective, the sailing is remarkably smooth; Pepper, on the other hand, frequently feels as though she's boarded the romantic equivalent of RMS _Titanic_.

The thing that makes this particular press conference exponentially less stressful is that Tony will not be the one running the show. Pepper, as CEO of Stark Industries, is going to announce Tony's appointment as CTO. He is going to say a few carefully-vetted words, sharing a double lectern with Pepper the entire time, and the media have already been advised that he will not be taking any questions. Pepper has ensured that the microphone on Tony's side of the podium is equipped with a kill switch that she can easily reach, just in case.

In the green room, she fixes his hair, knots his tie, and adjusts his pocket square. She doesn't have to do these things for him—she never did, not really—but she likes to have a concrete task to focus on when she's nervous. He's chosen a tone-on-tone ensemble today: navy suit, royal blue shirt, ice-blue tie. He knows how much she likes him in blue. His hand eases down her back and roams idly over her bottom as she reviews the major talking points.

"Don't stress." He pats Pepper's ass reassuringly, the way most people might touch a hand or a shoulder. "You're going to be great."

"I hate these things."

"I know. The balls, right?"

He expects her to blush, but instead her gaze sweeps downward, then back to his face, raising a single eyebrow. There's a slight, suggestive curl to her lips. His inventive imagination kicks into overdrive, his body reacts accordingly, and he feels his own face getting warm. Potts, 1; Stark, 0.

She kisses him, just once, very carefully, so as not to smudge her mouth or stain his. She glances down once more, with an air of disapproval that he suspects is feigned. "Get _that_ under control, Mr. Stark," she tells him sternly. It's a tactical error, because he loves when she gets tough with him.

He slides his hands into his pockets and smiles like a shark. "_You_ started it, Ms. Potts."

* * *

Tony never has the opportunity to give his speech—which is a shame, because it's a good one, and he was honestly planning to stick to the cards this time.

As he rises and walks towards the podium and Pepper, there's a flash of metal in his peripheral vision, and two small pops, like party balloons bursting. The crowd erupts, a single mass of bodies surging in all possible directions, including onto the stage. Tony scans the room for Happy, who's carrying the suitcase armour; the ex-boxer is already charging into the crowd, tackling the shooter.

In all the confusion, it takes Tony a second to realize that the front of him is covered in warm blood, and another few to realize _he_ isn't the one bleeding.

Pepper turns to face him, hands scrabbling aimlessly at her belly, blood spurting through her tiny fingers. She seems to be more focused on trying not to make a mess than actually staunching the wound. Tony reaches for her, impossibly slow, as though he's moving through quicksand.

She starts to crumple, bracing herself against his chest with both hands, and he catches her under the arms and lays her down flat on the floor. Kneeling over her, he pulls up her suit jacket and shirt, and finds the hole. His head is throbbing—his brain persists in redrawing her with an intact torso, refusing to process the information it's receiving. Pepper is craning her neck, trying to get a look at the wound.

"Lie still," he says, and eases her shoulders down. He takes off his jacket and presses it into her abdomen. She gasps, sharply. He's screaming at anyone within earshot to call the fucking paramedics _right fucking now_, and—

"It's okay, Tony," she whispers, her small hands covering his and squeezing. "It'll be okay." He wants to believe her, wants this to be a moment he will tease her about later—_her_ reassuring _him_, it's so Pepper—only she's ashen, the colour literally draining from her face. The carpet beneath them is so soaked that it's already reached the saturation point; blood pools around them, seeping into the fabric of his trousers. He can't figure out where it's all coming from. It isn't until much later that he remembers about exit wounds.

He mentally reviews the things he's going to need to tell the EMTs when they arrive: allergies (strawberries), medications (the pill), next of kin (himself). He wishes he knew her blood type, but he usually depends on Pepper to keep track of all that stuff. "I'll fix this," he tells her.

"I know you w…" Before Pepper can complete the thought, she exhales, and he feels her fingers slacken. Her eyes stare into the middle distance, glazed, unfocused. She's gone.

* * *

Tony manages to stay quietly inebriated through the majority of the inquest, his own testimony included. Very few people notice, because he's had years of practice at public intoxication. Jim Rhodes knows, of course. He takes as much leave as he can to be there; he wants to be sure Tony doesn't drive. His chauffeur has had to take some personal time.

Tony's bloodstained shirt and tie are displayed on a mannequin of Tony's approximate size and shape. His wadded-up suit jacket rests in an evidence bag on a nearby table. Rhodey tries not to dwell too much on the shirt, the transfer stains in the shape of Pepper's hands. Tony sits quietly through the entirety of the blood spatter analysis, eyes trained on his faceless doppleganger.

The next stage involves a lot of medical jargon—most of which Tony actually understands, human anatomy and physiology having become a hobby of his since building the armour. Tony seems to come alive at this point; there's something horrifying to Rhodey about the way his friend keeps leaning over to explain what the terms mean, as though they're watching _Grey's Anatomy_ or something.

There are photos of the wound—close-up, sanitized, devoid of context. Tony begins to get irritated with the fact that they keep calling her _Virginia_; Rhodey has to take him out of the room because he starts correcting people. Loudly.

Later, they review the press footage from the event, which is how Rhodey and the rest of the world learn that it wasn't the first shot that killed Pepper—it was the second. And only because she changed direction at the last possible moment. Only because she deliberately stepped in front of Tony when she heard the sound.

Tony will spend years trying to convince himself that he would have done the same for her.


	4. Humility

**4. Humility**

In the aftermath of the Hammer Drone attack, Tony retreats to the same pre-war classic six where he grew up. He's long since outgrown the place, of course; his own sleek, glass-walled penthouse is only a few short blocks away. But he's kept it up, paid for it to be cleaned and the furnishings and fixtures cared for. It stays tucked away in the background, ready for him to slip into any old time—like a favourite pair of sneakers, or a secret identity.

After everything that's happened, everything that he's been through, Tony needs to be here.

It has often been said of the emperor Nero that he fiddled while Rome burned. Entirely aside from the anachronism of a fiddle existing in 1st century Rome, many sources mention the fact that Nero actually organized and personally funded a relief effort, providing food and shelter for those who lost their homes in the Great Fire.

The combined self-destruction of the Hammer Drones has cut a comparable swath, taking out almost half of Queens. Tony—who, in his hedonistic heyday, drew frequent comparisons to certain members of the Julio-Claudian family tree—personally coordinates medical care, transport, and accommodations for those who need it. And he does it all from Howard's office, with his bare feet propped up on Howard's desk. He's in his boxers and undershirt; his disassembled armour is stacked in the far corner by the bookshelf, the sweat-soaked neoprene sheath wadded up inside.

It's been a while since Tony has dealt with public officials—between the illness, the armour, and the inherent advantages of wealth, he's been insulated from the world these past few months, even more so than usual. He's exhausted, and he can feel his temper fraying. He has to resist the urge to yell at people who are just trying to do their jobs. It would be so much simpler to give up, to hand the phone to Pepper and sink into the leather couch in the corner, but Tony feels as though he has something to prove, about how similar he is to his father. And how different.

Pepper has been to the Upper East Side apartment only a handful of times in all the years she's worked for Tony—usually just a quick walkthrough so that she can report back on its upkeep. He almost never stays here, even though he owns the entire building. It's always seemed so strange to Pepper that he just _keeps_ it like this, in stasis, his childhood preserved in amber. It's one of Tony's few secrets, one of the exceedingly rare topics on which he has absolutely no comment.

After a quick run for supplies, she makes coffee in the kitchen, stocking feet sliding pleasantly against butter-soft parquet. Maria Stark's kitchen. To her delight, Pepper discovers a series of faded pencil notches on the molding that adjoins the dining room. Below each tiny tick, a date is carefully inscribed in an elegant, flowing hand. She keeps losing track of what she's doing because she can't help but turn around again, to double-check that the marks are still there.

Pepper sets the mug down on the scuffed mahogany desk, next to Tony's right hand, just as she's always done. She hovers behind him for a moment, uncharacteristically indecisive, eavesdropping while he insists to whoever is on the line that _no_, it doesn't _matter_ how much it costs, it has to be _tonight_. It has to be _now_. "What part of 'I will pay for it' doesn't make sense to you?" he demands. "Look, is there someone else there I can talk to?"

Pepper gives in to impulse and leans down, kisses the top of his head. His hand rises up and takes hold of her wrist, pressing it silently to his lips before settling her arm around his neck. She drapes her other arm across his chest, his body reassuringly solid under her hands. She runs her fingers over the flat surface of the new RT—it's quite cool to the touch.

"How about the mayor, is he up? Well, get him on the phone. I'll wait."

She closes her eyes, dips her face into his hair, and inhales deeply. His very presence is intoxicating; she wants to breathe him, drink him, absorb him through her skin. It's frighteningly easy—despite so many years of struggling against it, this closeness is as natural as waking.

When he starts speaking into the phone again, she stands up and slides her hands over his shoulders. She gradually works her way from caressing to kneading, digging into the knots of muscle with fingertips and knuckles. She's always wanted to do this; after a decade of walking three steps behind him, Pepper has learned to read the line of his back, and knows all the spots where he carries his cares.

Tony continues to argue into the ether without breaking stride, but his voice is rapidly losing its edge, becoming deeper, more fluid. He's able to speak calmly, invoking the easy charm that invariably fells obstacles like dominoes.

Finally, having achieved some measure of success, he hangs up and tilts his head back, sighing in utter satisfaction as she grinds her thumb against a persistent knob of tension between his shoulder blades.

"I should be doing that," she remarks, guiltily, indicating the phone.

"No. I'm pretty sure you should _only_ do this, ever again."

"I'm still the CEO, technically."

He grins. "You said you didn't want the job anymore."

"I was tired of trying to do it all alone."

He gazes up at her, his expression something akin to wonder. "Me too," he confesses.

* * *

Later that night—so much later that it's technically well into the next morning—Tony props his chin up on Pepper's shoulder and murmurs, "I'll flip you for the couch. Heads or tails?"

"Don't be an ass, Tony." She knows he doesn't have any coins—he's in his _underwear_, for crying out loud. Superheroes don't carry spare change. She leads him by the hand down the hall and into the bedroom.

Unlike most of the furniture in the house, the bed in the master suite is relatively new. Tony's the only one who's ever slept in it—he doesn't bring girls here. This isn't _girls_, though. It's _Pepper_. He's pretty sure it's okay.

He sinks into the mattress; his limbs feel heavy, as though his bones are made of granite. Between Rhodey and Vanko, he took a pretty decent pounding, not to mention the lingering effects of the palladium. He's torn between needing to be close to her and wanting everything to be perfect; he has a reputation to live up to, after all.

As usual, Pepper does most of the work for both of them in a way that makes it seem effortless. The blue glow of the RT fills her eyes with foxfire, pools in the slopes and swales of her body as she rocks into him, envelops him. Her touch is gentle, and sure, and it isn't long before the only thoughts in his head are _more_, _please_, _yes_, and _Pepper_. The sheer, unfettered beauty of her makes his heart ache.

Afterwards, she tells him his skin tastes like coconut, and he laughs into the hollow of her throat; it's a pleasant, if somewhat distracting, sensation. He refuses to explain why it's so funny. She falls asleep nestled in the crook of his shoulder. She's heavier than she looks—heavy enough to cut off the circulation in his arm.

* * *

"Tony," murmurs Pepper, ruffling his hair. She hates to wake him; uninterrupted sleep is exactly what he needs, and he's so still and peaceful, his face buried in the pillow. But it's almost noon, and there are over five hundred messages on her BlackBerry. Every news outlet in the country is trying to find Iron Man. They need to start triaging.

He doesn't stir as she runs her hand over his shoulder, down his back. "Tony," she says again. "Come on." Despite the warmth of the room and the heavy down comforter, he's quite cool.

It's then that she notices: he isn't breathing.

JARVIS was right. The new RT wasn't ready.


	5. Benevolence

**5. Benevolence**

A couple of months into the relationship, Pepper asks Tony what his intentions are. When he gets through deriding the quaintness of her wording, he tells her, honestly, that he doesn't know. That he can't predict the future. Defensively, he adds, "I never promised you anything long-term."

Pepper walks out.

For the first couple of days, he's confident that she'll be back once she's had some time to cool off. He pulls all-nighters, tinkering with the suit; without Pepper around to ensure he takes breaks to eat and sleep, he's free to really lose himself in the work.

Late on the evening of the third day, after he's had a few drinks, he calls her. A flatly emphatic voice informs him that the number he is trying to reach has been disconnected. It's then that Tony realizes the magnitude of his error.

Considering the resources at his disposal, it takes him a surprisingly long time to find her—almost a year, in fact. It seems Pepper has developed a few strategies for staying off the grid: she's changed her last name, and returned to her first.

But find her he does, and when he does, he's far too proud to contact her directly; she so obviously wants nothing more to do with him.

Over the next dozen or so years, in between joining the Avengers and a brief stint as Secretary of Defense and a longer stint as director of SHIELD and everything else he gets up to, Tony occasionally has JARVIS ping Pepper. The details of her new life are sparse, and unsatisfying: inoculation records, a Connecticut driver's license, a grainy satellite photo of the roof of a duplex in New Haven. So he knows that Virginia Patterson is a responsible motorist with a well-kept yard, and that her shots are up-to-date. But that's all.

He spots her completely by chance, one cloudy afternoon in New York City—which is where he spends most of his time of late, the sun-drenched California coast having lost its charm. She is—naturally—emerging from an upscale shoe store with a shopping bag tucked protectively under one arm.

He isn't sure at first; there have been many false sightings over the years. Women of a certain height with reddish hair and willowy limbs, all of whom turned out to be phantoms. But then she turns to hail a cab, and it's definitely Pepper—a little older, a little blonder, but undoubtedly the same smattering of freckles, the same sharp little shoulders and classically graceful _en pointe_ stance.

He doesn't mean to call out to her; he's just so surprised by the fact that it's actually, unmistakably _her_ that the name is jolted from his lips against his own volition. "Pepper!" he exclaims, loudly enough that she jumps—actually _hops_ right off the curb and into the street. She glances over her shoulder and their eyes meet; her smile is both familiar and entirely strange.

"No one calls me that anymore," she calls back. A taxi pulls in to the curb, but she waves it away apologetically.

As she walks towards him, Tony is suddenly conscious of the grey in his hair, the laxity in his carriage. He feels battle-scarred and weary, but he's a practiced hand at projecting a confidence he doesn't own. He used to be in politics, after all.

"Hello, Pepper," he says warmly. He's glad he's wearing a suit; it's a form of armour, albeit not the one he's known for.

"No one but you _ever_ called me that," she adds, and he doesn't argue. Her assertion is patently false, but her voice is exactly the same and so he instinctively trusts it to tell the truth.

"How are you?" he asks, marveling at the way her small hand still fits so perfectly into his.

"I'm well, Tony. Thank you." She doesn't ask what he's been up to, presumably because she's watched the news once or twice in the past decade.

"Listen, I've got some time to kill…" Which is an outright lie; in fact, at this precise moment, he's late for two different meetings. "Can I buy you a coffee? We can get caught up."

"Sorry," she says, and it sounds genuine. "I'm on kind of a tight schedule."

An ungainly teenage boy charges out of the boutique and spills into the street. Tony has never seen him before, but instantly recognizes the slope of his nose, that particular shade of red hair. Even though his clothes look relatively new, he seems to be on the verge of outgrowing them. He's lean and rawboned; Tony can tell by his long wrists and the pale, speckled column of his neck that the kid's going to be tall. Just like his mother.

"Basketball shoes," explains Pepper, patting the bag under her arm with an indulgent smile. "Apparently these ones give you the perfect jump shot, or make you six inches taller, or do your homework for you, or something. I don't know."

Tony nods slowly, eyes fixed on the boy. "What position does he play?"

"Point guard."

"Varsity?"

"JV. He'll be fifteen in March," she adds evenly, in answer to the question he's really asking.

Tony takes a step forward, stumbling slightly, as though the ground has shifted under his feet while he's been standing there. "Potts." His voice is low, and urgent. He has no idea why he's using her last name—her _old_ last name—but she doesn't correct him.

Before he can complete the thought, the kid spots them and shuffles over, yanking the earbuds out of his ears. "Mom, I thought you were getting a cab." He scowls suspiciously at Tony over Pepper's shoulder. "Hi," he says pointedly.

"Can I give you guys a ride somewhere?" Tony inquires, indicating the Rolls-Royce still idling curbside.

Pepper peers anxiously at the tinted glass. Tony beckons to the driver, who steps out of the car and holds the rear passenger door open. He can't tell if Pepper is relieved or disappointed.

He wants to tell her about Happy's promotion to head of security for SI, about Rhodey's accident and the cybernetic implants that saved his life. Even though he recognizes the futility of it, he wants to transplant Virginia Patterson into that little corner of his existence that's been lying fallow since Pepper Potts disappeared.

"We're going to Madison Square Garden," supplies the boy unexpectedly.

"Knicks game?" asks Tony.

He nods, grinning crookedly, and Tony is willing to bet the kid's never been in a limo before.

"I'm going that way anyhow." Tony knows he can arrange three courtside seats with a single phone call. "Hop in."

Pepper frowns. "I don't think that's really…" She has a couple of new worry lines, he notes, but not many. Fifteen years isn't such a long time.

"Mom." The kid is rocking on the balls of his feet now, coiled to spring, his toes poking through the shredded canvas caps of his sneakers. "We're gonna be _late_." He pronounces the word as though it's an obscenity, and Tony laughs. If there had been any doubt at all that this was Pepper's progeny, that would have settled it.

"Jake," cautions Pepper, in a low tone that Tony remembers all too well, and the teenager's shoulders sag. With a wry twist to her lips, she adds, "Apparently we need to have a talk about getting in cars with strangers."

Jake rolls his eyes elaborately.

With a politician's practiced ease, Tony extends a hand to the boy, who reaches past his mother and palms it.

"Tony Stark."

He watches the kid's face for a spark of recognition, but none is evident. Clearly, Jake doesn't follow current events.

"Jake Patterson."

The boy's hands are larger than Tony's, but his eyes are the exact same shade of brown. It's a dominant genetic trait.


	6. Moderation

**6. Moderation**

Dating doesn't work out the way either of them expected. Depending on whose point of view you choose to believe, either he's too much fun, or she's not fun enough. Iron Man probably doesn't help the situation. In any event, they break it off, but it's mutual, which means there's no reason why they can't continue to run the company together: Pepper as CEO, Tony as CTO. They make a good team: she handles the boring details and keeps the stakeholders happy, and he wages a full-on charm offensive and keeps the company name in the papers. There's still an indefinable energy between them, a certain spark that makes their joint public appearances the stuff of legend.

Privately, he still flirts with her outrageously, and she still brushes him off; beneath it all, there's a deep, abiding affection on both sides that helps to preserve the status quo. They both date other people from time to time—although they do have a standing drinks appointment on Friday afternoons, which they call the Executive Retreat. In short: they're just friends.

One night, they're at the office late working on projections. Pepper is perched on the corner of Tony's desk; she actually only came across the hall to ask him a quick question, but somehow they've ended up chatting about her recent trip to the London office.

"I was so jet-lagged when I got home that I actually got into the car on the right-hand side, and sat there for almost five minutes wondering where the steering wheel had gone."

He laughs obligingly—the story is entertaining, but he's more interested in her legs, which are right at his eye level.

When she crosses them, slowly, he catches the whisper of lace and a flash of creamy-white thigh—she's wearing a pair of silk stockings _he_ bought her, ages ago, in Paris (he prefers stockings over pantyhose for the obvious convenience factor).

The stockings have lasted this long in part because they were so extravagantly expensive—but also because, as she told him at the time, Pepper doesn't wear stockings. Or didn't, until now.

He smirks up at her, a predatory gleam in his eye.

"What are you smiling about?" she asks, ostensibly annoyed—but she isn't, really, and she knew the answer long before ever posing the question.

His reply takes the form of a single raised eyebrow.

"_Focus_, Tony." She leans towards him, and the top button of her blouse seems to have mysteriously undone itself—just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of black lace molded to pale curves. "You don't want me to keep you here all night, do you?"

Pepper wasn't always this skilled in the art of seduction, but she had a good teacher, and she's been practicing in the interim. She's elected to take a page from Tony's book in regards to personal relationships—she'll probably never be as prolific, but she's definitely more discreet.

Case in point: she locked the door when she came in.

He gently caresses the sloping swell of her calf; experimentally at first, then with more deliberation when she doesn't slap his fingers away. The silk catches against the roughness of his hands.

She remembers those hands; the memories are fond. And vivid.

Hence the stockings.

When he stands up, she smiles, abandoning pretense entirely. She reaches out and grasps his tie, using it to reel him in. Their lips meet in a long, leisurely kiss, and when she opens her mouth to him, he's surprised to note that she's been drinking. She's shocked to note that he _hasn't_.

He presses his lips to the pulse point fluttering at her throat, and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath—it's been a while since he's been down this particular road, but he can still recall most of the major landmarks.

She tangles her fingers in his hair; it's still one of her favourite things about him, even more so with the recent appearance of a few silver threads. He leans into her, and she reclines gracefully onto his desk.

Everything after that unfolds in an orderly sequence, like tumblers clicking into place in a combination lock. There's nothing awkward or rushed about the encounter; this is the one part of their failed relationship that always worked.

Afterwards, there's no awkwardness, and no regret. They're still just friends—friends who have really spectacular sex once in a while. In his dad's day, they would have called it an affair.


	7. Persistence

**7. Persistence**

Even though he's okay for the time being, Tony's brush with death is enough to make him realize that the odds are getting longer every day. He can't stop thinking about legacy.

A couple of weeks after the night on the rooftop, Pepper stops by the house with groceries. Tony has two broken ribs and a miscellany of other injuries, and is under strict orders to stay in bed unless it's to go to either the bathroom or the hospital, so—naturally—she finds him in the workshop. Even when he can barely stand, Tony is the living embodiment of Galileo's principle of relativity, incapable of achieving an absolute state of rest.

"I warned you," she chides. If she were a little surer of his ability to withstand it, she'd be tempted to smack him on the arm.

"You did," he agrees, without looking up from his work. He's pale, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Even sitting up is costing him an incredible amount of effort. He doesn't like to take the painkillers he's been prescribed because he claims they make him 'stupid'—which for Tony is still well above average.

She places one hand on each of his shoulders and presses down gently. "What're you working on?" She wants to know what project was so absolutely vital that it's worth the pain, worth prolonging his recovery. It's not part of the armour, as far as she can tell; Pepper is already more familiar with Iron Man's workings than she really cares to be. The pieces spread out over the workbench don't really look like much of anything—just fragmented bits of circuitry and wires. But Pepper knows that, like Michelangelo coaxing the fragile sculpture out from within the blank slab of marble, Tony has a unique, alchemical ability to see the completed object in even the tiniest and most flawed of components.

In response to her question, he shrugs absently, hard muscles cording and flexing under her fingers. "Could you grab me some solder wire out of that drawer?" He points behind him. "331, the red box. Thanks."

Pepper pulls open the drawer to find about a dozen identical hexagonal cardboard containers with flat tops, all red, each one labeled _331 Organic Flux Core Solder Wire_. She chooses one at random and extracts it.

When she turns around, the box cradled in her palm, Tony is kneeling on the floor in front of her. On one knee. Everything has gone completely silent; even Dummy and You have paused in their work to observe, their sightless heads cocked expectantly.

"Tony," she breathes.

He's panting slightly—he isn't supposed to be walking around yet, and even the swift, stealthy movement from chair to floor was enough to wind him—but his gaze is steady, fixed on the little box. "Open it," he urges.

She does.

The ring has been carefully wedged into a pre-cut block of polyurethane foam, which is why the box didn't rattle when she plucked it out of the drawer. He's even weighted it on one end, to be certain she would hold the box right-side-up. It's about as thoughtful as Tony gets.

"You're _not_ serious," asserts Pepper, even though she knows he is entirely too serious.

He beams up at her, in that way that always makes her feel as though his meticulous hands have unlatched her chest and applied a shot of direct current to her stammering heart. Emotional cardioversion.

Pepper tips the box over, depositing the ring in the palm of her hand. It's a solitaire—classic, tasteful. Harry Winston, if she isn't mistaken. He knows she wouldn't wear anything too ostentatious. Which is progress, of a kind.

"Tony," she says again, shakily. "It's been _two weeks_."

"Yeah, I'm not really about delayed gratification." The smile sharpens into a wicked grin, marred only slightly by a smudgy bruise at the corner of his mouth.

She feels herself blush. It's true: they've already engaged in a couple of activities directly counterindicated by both JARVIS and the doctors at the SHIELD hospital—the memory of which helpfully serves to remind Pepper that this man has a way of talking her into things that could potentially be hazardous to both of them.

"What would you have done if I'd picked the wrong box?"

"There is no wrong box."

Her mouth falls open.

"Don't get too excited, Pepper, they're all the same. And you only get to keep one, the rest are going back to the store." Smugly, he deadpans, "Don't tell me you're allergic to diamonds."

She offers her hand to guide him up; he grasps it and squeezes her fingers gently, but remains kneeling at her feet.

"You should be in bed."

"_You_ should stop trying to change the subject," he counters.

"Tony—"

"Look, Pepper, it's not forever. I mean, not really. When you're married to a superhero, 'Till death do us part' isn't likely to be—"

"Don't say that." She feels physically ill—there have been so many close calls already. "Don't joke about that."

He continues to grin up at her with his bruised mouth, and they both pretend that what Tony just said was in fact a joke.

"So?" he prompts. "How about an answer?"

"To what?" she retorts. "You haven't technically asked me anything."

"Okay: Pepper, I think you and I should get married."

"That's a statement, not a question."

"True. Do you agree or disagree?"

She tugs insistently at his wrist, and this time he stands, supporting himself with a hand on her shoulder. She slides her arms around his waist, buries her face in his grease-stained sweatshirt, and simply holds him still. She's careful to avoid squeezing too hard, or not hard enough—life with Tony means always having to divine that precarious point of balance.

He is simultaneously the strongest and the most vulnerable person she's ever loved. She knows that nothing about their relationship will ever be simple, or straightforward, or peaceful, or painless. In a single instant, she's able to visualise, with startling clarity, the hundreds of obstacles that lie ahead, and the thousands of ways this all could go so awfully, catastrophically wrong.

And in that moment, for the first time, Pepper really gets a sense of what it must be like to be Tony Stark—to envision the whole tenuously emerging from the tiniest parts. It isn't perfect, and it isn't easy. But it's possible. It's _there_.

"Trust me," he says, just as he did that night. "I can do this."

And Pepper does.

"Maybe," she hears herself concede. "Okay. Yes."

He smiles into her hair. "Maybe, okay, yes?"

Like she did on the rooftop, Pepper closes her eyes and hangs on for dear life. "Just the last one," she amends. "Just yes."


End file.
